


i hate everything about you (why do i love you)

by AnonTheMoose



Series: i hate, you hate (you love me) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 'stiles is abused by theo' fics are great but that's not what this is, BAMF Stiles, M/M, So I had to write it, Starts with the scene from the roof of the hospital, What Have I Done, and GUESS HOW THAT TURNS OUT, and Stiles gives as good as he gets, and i enjoyed that way more than i should have, and not a wilting flower, and then Stiles has a concussion so Theo has to take him home, and then things escalate in the jeep because of course they do, basically this is three make-outs and a trio of orgasms, but stand by for more in the series, canon til 5x07, consentual but not safe or sane, gives more even - since theo heals so quickly, have decided to make it a series of oneshots instead of a multi chap, i am such steo trash oh my goodness, i've actually been wanting to read this fic for ages but no one had written it, if the scene from the roof of the hospital ended with Stiles and Theo violently making out, in which Stiles is a fiery asshole, just put me out with the trash, so this is now complete yay, teeth marks don't last long on a werewolf, this is a totally consentual (but almost definitely not healthy) relationship, when's the next bin collection day?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonTheMoose/pseuds/AnonTheMoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Kiss me, and I’ll bite your lips off,” Stiles snarls, because he’s never one to back down, and Theo smirks, slow and smug and delighted and infuriating, and presses forward again. </p><p>He kisses Stiles. </p><p>Stiles tries to bite his lips off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i hate everything about you (why do i love you)

**Author's Note:**

> So… this was the fic that I created this account for. Because it is so far outside my usual realm of fic that, while I was writing it, I came to the realisation that I had to create an entire new account just to post it. Because my family know about and follow my other account, and wowww, do I not want my mother ever reading this particular fic of mine or what. And then doctor patient confidentiality happened and got finished first, and wow, yeah, uh, no – family ain’t ever readin’ that one either, ta. So basically it was a good thing that I created this account, cause apparently I’ve got kinkier stuff in me than I ever realised before. Additional fun fact: I am, I kid you not, drinking a tea called “Cleanse” as I write this, which seems… appropriate. Because obviously I need to cleanse my soul, oh my goodness.

This… _thing_ between them is the actual opposite of healthy.

 

It’s violent and impulsive; it’s bloody, bruising, painful. Twisted. Messed up.

 

_Addictive._

 

It’s the most addictive thing either of them have ever experienced, and it catches and snares them both when they should be paying attention to other things – to Scott, to the Dread Doctors, to whatever newest Chimera is threatening them, to the _shitstorm that is their lives_ ; it catches them and drags them in and _consumes_ them, and Stiles would be far more worried about the whole thing if he could a) spare the emotional and physical energy to worry, and b) if Theo weren’t just as… _ensnared_ by the situation as Stiles is.

 

Because that’s half the problem. Neither of them actually –– well, no. It wouldn’t quite be accurate to say that neither of them want this, because, _oh,_ they _do…_ but that’s the _other_ half of the problem.

 

Because they _shouldn’t_ want it, and they both know it.

 

Stiles – Stiles _hates_ Theo. He hated him when they were in the fourth grade and Theo was trying to be Scott’s best friend and he hates him now and the way he’s trying to edge into this thing that Scott’s built – this _pack_ that Scott’s built, that _they’ve_ built, all of them, together – and he hates the way Theo’s sliming his way into the middle of it all and he hates the guy’s _stupid fucking earnest expression_ and he hates that he’s always there just in time to save the day and he hates that Scott is starting to trust him and that Malia is starting to trust him and that Lydia and Kira and Liam and even fucking _Deaton_ are becoming convinced enough by the guy’s well-meaning façade that they’re all looking at him out the corner of their eyes with speculative and appreciative looks, like they’re falling for it too, like he’s convincing _them_ to trust him too, and Stiles just hates hates hates _hates_ him.

 

And Theo – Theo has a _plan._ He has a plan, and it’s a good plan – it’s a _great_ plan – and his plan ends with him an alpha and him with a _pack_ ; a strong pack; a _powerful_ pack – and it’s always been his plan to have Stiles in that pack (because Stiles might think everything is all about Scott, because he always _has_ thought everything’s about Scott, ever since the fourth grade, but it’s _never been about Scott,_ because Theo only ever cared about Scott as a way to get to Stiles, and Stiles has never understood that), and his plan to get Stiles in his pack involves manipulating him, yeah, and driving a wedge between Stiles and Scott and Stiles and his father and Stiles and everyone else, absolutely, but Theo’s plan never involved – it never involved _this_ (not at this stage of everything, at least, but Theo would be lying if he said he hadn’t been angling for it to happen later, once everything else was settled, once he could do it _properly_ , where it could be a controlled blaze, not an… an all-consuming _wildfire_ ), and Theo – Theo doesn’t know what to do with that, because this, this is a variable he doesn’t need right now, it’s a variable that has a huge chance of blowing up in his face, but he _can’t make himself stop,_ and that, _that’s_ the primary problem with this, because if it was happening only as a way to manipulate Stiles it would be _fine,_ it would be _genius_ even, but that’s not it at _all,_ because Theo has just as little control over this (over _himself_ ) as Stiles does, and that, just – Theo can’t see this ending well, but he _can’t make himself walk away_.  

 

…………

 

It starts on the roof –

 

(properly – it _properly_ starts on the roof, because there’s been a simmering, bubbling tension between them since Theo came back, since that night outside the school and that day in the locker room and the time Stiles followed him into the woods and it’s been getting stronger each time, pulling tighter and tauter every time like an elastic band stretched and stretched until it’s ready to snap)

 

– and the chimera is lying dead on the concrete and Stiles is still shaking from an overdose of fear-adrenaline-shock and then _rage_ because Theo’s saying “I know what you did to Donovan,” and no, no, he can’t know, _no one can know,_ and _especially_ not this guy, not Theo, because Scott will hate him and his dad will be brokenhearted but _Theo,_ Theo will use it against him – will blackmail him or _worse –_ and Stiles is moving and his fists are in Theo’s hoodie and he’s slamming the guy up against the fencing and there are sparks flying everywhere (why are there sparks, they’ve hit the _fence,_ not the actual electrics, there shouldn’t be sparks, that makes no sense –) and his fists are twisted in Theo’s hoodie and he’s snarling words in the werewolf’s face and –

 

– and part of Stiles is surprised that he actually succeeded with that move just now, that he was actually _able_ to shove Theo back like that, because Theo has super strength, and Stiles most certainly does _not_ have super strength, but here they are, Theo backed into a fence because Stiles put him there and –

 

– and then Theo’s hands are coming up and gripping Stiles’ arms and he’s spinning them around and this time it’s Stiles slamming backwards into the fencing (and there are no sparks this time, Stiles notices distantly, despite that he’s hit the same place against the fence that Theo did) and Theo’s snarling words right back at him and the visual echoes of the sparks from earlier are still flickering in the corners of their eyes and the diamond-shaped wire is digging harshly into Stiles’ back and his hands are fisted in Theo’s hoodie and Theo’s fingers are wrapped tightly around Stiles’ biceps and they’re pressed together from navel down as Theo uses his weight and strength to keep Stiles in place, one of Theo’s thighs between Stiles’ and the other pressing in from the right, bracketing Stiles in with his hips, and the werewolf’s left hand is dry but his right is slightly slippery with the blood that still coats his fingers, blood that’s now on Stiles’ hoodie, blood from the teenaged boy-monster who just tried to kill them both, but who lost his own ~~throat~~ life instead instead –

 

– and then their words peter off into what’s possibly the loudest silence Stiles has ever experienced, and they’re both all up in each other’s space and their still-heavy breaths are mingling in the air between them and Stiles’ heart is still thudding loud in his ears and in his throat and he can feel the adrenaline that’s still rushing through his veins and Theo’s hands are tight around Stiles’ arms and the fabric of the guy’s hoodie is soft where it’s clenched in Stiles’ hands and Stiles can feel the powerful press of Theo’s body where his chest is pressing into Stiles’ knuckles; where his hips are pressing into Stiles’ hips, and –

 

– and the silence is loud, it’s _so loud_ , it’s like it’s _buzzing_ between them, and then Theo’s eyes flicker down to Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles can’t help it, it’s a reflex when his own eyes dart down to flicker a return glance at Theo’s lips, and there’s something charged in the air, suddenly, between them, and Stiles doesn’t know where it came from, doesn’t know _when_ it came from, because it feels like it hasn’t just appeared, actually; it feels like it’s been here since Stiles first shoved Theo up against the fence – or since before then, maybe – and they’re pressed together from their navels down and Stiles’ heartbeat is loud in his ears and the _thing_ in the air between them is _crackling,_ and there’s a dead boy’s blood all over them, and –

 

– and Stiles never works out which one of them it is that moves first (does Theo press forwards, hands pushing Stiles even further into the fence as he crowds in close, or does Stiles use the fingers he has tangled in Theo’s shirt to pull the guy in, pull Theo towards him, or do they both do both these things, either at the same time or _close enough_ to at the same time that it doesn’t matter who moved first?) but suddenly they’re pressed up all along the length of each other and Stiles’ fingers are twisting further in the fabric over Theo’s chest as the diamond-link fence digs hard into his back, and Theo’s mouth on his is hot and wet and _moving_ , and Stiles’ mouth is moving easily, instinctively, in tandem, and it’s not _nice_ , it’s not choir-singing lovely or any of that bullshit – it’s rough and demanding and pushy, for both of them, and their breath is coming in short, harsh pants around each other’s lips as their tongues map the inside of each other’s mouths, and Stiles’ nose is pressed hard into Theo’s cheekbone so he shifts, tilts his head the other way so his nose isn’t getting crushed anymore, and Theo makes a noise in the back of his throat at the movement and he bites down a little on the inside of Stiles’ lip, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat and his hips twitch forward, and Theo lets loose another noise in response that gets lost in Stiles’ mouth, and then it’s Stiles’ turn to make an aborted gasping noise because Theo’s hands drop to Stiles’ belt and the werewolf _tugs,_ brings their hips impossibly closer, and _fuck,_ the pressure of his jeans was already plenty, but now he’s got Theo pressed up against him there too, and the werewolf is straining against his own jeans just as much as Stiles is straining against his, and Stiles shifts his hips just a little in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure and Theo groans, low and deep, and –

 

– and Stiles can hear sirens.

 

“ _Fuck,”_ he gasps, pulling away and looking into the dark over Theo’s shoulder, breath coming in heavy, gasping heaves, and Theo’s breath is just as heavy and uneven, but apparently Theo can hear the sirens too, now, and he’s twisting around to look, even though there’s nothing to see, not from this angle, and he probably would have heard them earlier if he hadn’t been distracted, and, fuck, but the sirens are _really_ close, _shit_.

 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , we need to go,” Stiles says, and pushes, because he and Theo are still pressed together from chest to knee – Stiles’ hands still fisted in Theo’s hoodie, Theo’s fingers still gripping Stiles’ belt, their legs a tangle that’s only holding them up because they’re leaning so much of their weight on the fence – and they need to, _wow,_ they so very much need to _not be here_ , on the roof with a dead body – a dead body whose blood is _all over them_ , because Theo is the one who _killed him,_ fuck, _fuck_.

 

“We need to go, now, we need to go now, move, go – ” Stiles says, shoving at Theo, who stumbles back enough that Stiles can eel out from against the fence, and – fingers still gripping Theo’s shirt so he can drag the werewolf along with him, because they need to _go, fuck –_ starts making his way with long strides across the roof, towards the door, and –

– and then his eyes land on the body, land on _Josh_ , land on the _body of Josh,_ on his back staring blankly up at the sky, front coated in blood and throat flayed clean open, and, _shit_ , “it was a mountain lion” lost its believability as a cause of death a _long_ time ago, and even if anyone might believe that a mountain lion managed to get onto the fucking _roof of the hospital,_ Stiles’ dad knows, now, about werewolves and kanimas and kitsune, and he’s going to take one look at Josh and he’s going to _know,_ he’s going to _know_ that a werewolf did this, and, fuck, their fucking _blood-coated fingerprints_ are probably _all over the place_ up here, not to mention their scents, fucking _shit,_ they – there is so not enough time to clean up all _(any)_ of the evidence that will incriminate them if the police find Josh up here, throat ripped out, and they, what, what was the plan anyway, to just walk through the hospital coated in blood, yeah, sure, that won’t raise any eyebrows, shit _,_ they, no, they can’t go that way, and – _fuck,_ they can’t leave the guy here.

 

“We can’t leave him here,” Stiles says, and he’d stumbled to a stop, apparently, when he caught sight of Josh, and Theo’s hand closes around Stiles’ wrist, his fingers long and firm and, absent, somehow, like Theo’s hand moved without input from the guy’s brain, in kind of the same way that Stiles’ fingers are still gripping the werewolf’s blood-spattered hoodie, and –

 

(and Stiles is, wow, _so very much not_ thinking about the fact that he just _made out_ with someone who just killed a guy – just made out with someone who was covered in the blood of the person he _just killed_ , fuck, yeah, wow, _so not thinking about it_ )

 

– and the sirens are getting louder, but they can’t – they _can’t leave Josh there,_ that’s, that’s just _asking_ for trouble, because Stiles’ dad will find him, and he’ll _know_ it was a supernatural death, and he’ll ask Stiles if he knows anything about it, and Stiles has been lying to his dad for a long time, sure, but if Scott’s there he’ll hear the lie, and then they’ll _know_ – and worse, they’ll know he tried to lie about it, and then there’ll be more questions and _what if someone asks about Donovan?_

 

“Why?” Theo asks, and he still sounds out of breath and, fuck, that’s – that’s so the absolute last thing Stiles needs to be thinking about right now.

 

“Because there’s something taking the bodies,” Stiles says, and yeah, yes, that’s also a reason, that is a very good reason for why they shouldn’t leave the body here, because _something is taking the bodies,_ and Stiles doesn’t know how long it takes for whatever it is that’s stealing them to show up, but he doesn’t want his dad _anywhere near_ whatever it is, so therefore they should take it, _they_ should take it because otherwise his dad will take it and his dad might be there when the body-thief comes, and sure, no one’s been hurt by the body-thief _yet,_ but that’s mostly because no one’s been _around_ when the thief has come to do its thing, because whatever kind of thing it is that _steals dead bodies_ is obviously no kind of _good_ thing, and –

 

“We could find out who’s taking them,” Theo says, nodding, like he thinks that’s what Stiles was saying, and yeah, actually, that’s – that’s a good idea.

 

Stiles nods decisively and his fingers unhook and untangle themselves from Theo’s shirt, and he strides towards the body (and wonders, distantly, when his life got so fucked up enough that he’s so used to bodies that he can actually walk towards one now, possible plans for how to move it without anyone seeing them whirring through his brain as he goes, when at the beginning of this clusterfuck he would be more likely to throw up at the mere _sight_ of blood than anything else).

 

………

 

Later, they’re in Stiles’ jeep, waiting for someone to show up and steal the body.

 

(And Stiles will never forget that departure from the hospital – that departure from the hospital that was possibly the most stressful thing Stiles has ever done in his _life,_ and Stiles has experienced a lot of stressful things over the course of his life, but most especially since Scott got bitten, Stiles’ life has _most definitely_ taken a turn for the _very stressful_ since that whole life-altering event, but sneaking a dead body from the roof of a hospital with the aid of the guy who _created_ the dead body in the first place, while both of them were _covered in the dead guy’s blood_ and the sound of sirens got louder and louder until they _stopped,_ which meant that they were _at their destination,_ which was _the hospital Stiles was fleeing with a dead body from,_ that, yeah. That one goes down as the most stressful event to date.)

 

So they’re sitting in the jeep, waiting for someone to show up and steal the body, and there’s silence in the cab for maybe ten minutes – with Stiles staring resolutely out the windshield as he tells himself he’s being so vigilant because he doesn’t want to miss their body-thief’s arrival; and Theo, whose gaze keeps flitting from Stiles to the Clinic and back again – before the werewolf finally says, “So, are we gonna talk about what happened on the roof, or…?”

 

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p’ and not wavering in his stubborn Clinic-watching for even a second, because wow, yeah, no, _nope, so_ not talking about what happened on the roof; not _thinking_ about what happened on the roof, much less _talking_ about it – Stiles is emphatically not thinking about it; he is not thinking about it _hard._

 

“I think we should,” Theo says, stubborn and with a hint of offence, and Stiles is shaking his head before Theo’s even done speaking.

 

“Nothin’ to talk about,” he says, and even while very determinedly not looking at Theo, Stiles can see in his peripheral vision the way the other boy’s brows press down and together in frustration at that.

 

“There kind of is,” Theo argues. “You kissed me.”

 

And woah, that – _that_ gets Stiles to snap his head around, lips parted in shock and gaze bright and indignant.

 

“I did _not,”_ he disagrees heatedly. “ _You_ kissed _me.”_

 

Theo rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of his head.

 

“Fine,” he says shortly. “We kissed, then – is that better? Someone made the first move and then the other reciprocated, and neither of us knows which is which; are you happy with that?”

 

“Not really,” Stiles grumbles, turning back to the front.

 

“We really should talk about it,” Theo says, after a moment, and _ugh_ , the guy is like a dog with a bone.

 

(The dog references will truly _never_ get old.)

 

“Rrrreally not necessary,” Stiles says, dragging the ‘r’ out as his foot starts tapping in irritation and he resolutely looks anywhere but at Theo.

 

“Why not?” Theo asks, challenging and belligerent.

 

“Because it meant nothing,” Stiles says, voice short and striving for a nonchalance he only _just_ falls short of. “It was adrenaline, shock, whatever. Meaningless, one-time thing.”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Theo says, voice flat with exasperation – and then he pauses. His nostrils twitch, and he narrows his eyes and abruptly changes tack.

 

“You know what chemo-signals are, right?” he asks, and the change in his tone (it’s slower, all of a sudden, and lower-pitched; calculating) makes Stiles look over sharply, wary and suspicious.

 

And Stiles is right to be both those things, as it turns out, because he’s barely turned to look at Theo before the other boy is shifting out of his seat, swinging one leg behind the gearshift to land in the drivers-side footwell, moving his body until he’s close enough to be solidly invading Stiles’ space but not close enough to be touching him – close enough that his body is bracketing Stiles’ in, one arm on the shoulder of Stiles’ seat and the other braced on the drivers-side door-handle.

 

And Stiles – Stiles’ breath is short and uneven all of a sudden, caught totally off guard by the sudden proximity, mouth dry and eyes flickering reflexively down to Theo’s lips even as he instinctively pushes backwards into his seat in a somewhat futile attempt to re-establish some space between them.

 

“So you know that I can smell your pheromones, then,” Theo continues, not even bothering to wait for an answer, and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s the words themselves or the smug tone they’re delivered in, but suddenly he’s _pissed_.

 

“Yeah?” he snaps sharp and furious. “Can you smell my anger too?”

 

Theo’s lips curl at the edge, dark and amused and _wanting._

“Oh yeah,” he grins, and sways forward.

 

Stiles catches him with a hand flat on his chest, arrests his forward movement. The other boy stops, but he’s close enough now that their breath is tanging in the space between them, and they both know that Stiles’ human strength won’t be enough to keep Theo at bay if the werewolf decides to close the inch or so between them.

 

“Kiss me, and I’ll bite your lips off,” Stiles snarls, because he’s never one to back down, and Theo smirks, slow and smug and delighted and infuriating, and presses forward again.

 

He kisses Stiles.

 

Stiles tries to bite his lips off.

 

Theo makes a noise that’s a cross between a chuckle and a groan, his hand dropping from the shoulder of the car seat to fist in Stiles’ hoodie in an accidental match to the hand Stiles still has pressed against Theo’s chest.

 

And the chuckle-groan? That chuckle-groan _pisses Stiles off._

It pisses him off, and a snarl tears through his lips as his body moves without conscious input from his brain. The hand pressed against Theo’s chest claws into a fist, fingers clenching tight and twisting the fabric as he surges up, twists their bodies and shoves backward until their positions are reversed and Theo’s back in his own seat again, Stiles balanced above him and pushing _him_ deeper into the spongy fabric, their lips still pressed bruisingly together, and the change in Theo’s breath is gratifying, because gone is the smug arrogance, and instead the werewolf’s breath is unsteady – shallow and catching on every second inhale, and Stiles did that; _Stiles_ _did_ _that_.

 

He presses while he has the advantage, moving on instinct, and his hands side in opposite directions; the one that had been twisted in Theo’s hoodie drags down to the hem of the fabric, slips underneath to the smooth, taut skin there, and his nails drag and claw, dig sharply into the flesh of Theo’s hip. The other hand goes up, finds the short, spiky, _stupid_ hair that’s slightly sticky with gel, and his fingers clench and tangle in it until he’s got a good enough hold that he can yank Theo’s head backwards and hold it there while his mouth moves to the werewolf’s jaw.

 

He’s not trying to bite Theo’s lips off anymore, and he’s not entirely sure when that happened, exactly –

 

(though he thinks maybe it was when they made the move from the driver’s seat to the passenger seat, because that’s when Stiles wrested the control into his own hands, and if he’s going to be kissed against his will then _he’s_ going to be the one doing the kissing, thank you very much, and yes he _knows_ that doesn’t make sense, but he kind of doesn’t give a shit right now)

 

– but he’s hardly being gentle either, and Theo’s gasps are loud and uneven as Stiles’ teeth bite their way along his jaw and down his throat.

 

Theo’s hands move, sliding down to find the hem of Stiles’ shirt and yanking at it until it’s out of the way enough that he can get underneath, and then the werewolf’s fingers are spasming around Stiles’ hips from a tight hold to a tight _er_ hold in time with Stiles’ bites, and Stiles is going to have bruises tomorrow.

 

“No – pheromones, h-huh?” Theo asks, voice breathy and hitching but _smug_ again, the bastard, and Stiles bites down harder on the collarbone beneath his teeth as he growls and rolls his body instinctively –  pressing his and Theo’s bodies flush together chest-to-chest, then sternum-to-sternum, then hip-to-hip all in one rolling movement – pushing Theo deeper into the seat, and it’s awkward, doing all this in the small space they’ve got, but Theo’s knees are spread wide and Stiles is half-standing in the footwes are spread wide and Stiles is half-standing inthe and Theo's teeth underneath, and then ll, half-kneeling against the edge of the passenger seat, and his nails of one hand are digging into the flesh of Theo’s hip and the fingers of his other hand are tangled in Theo’s hair, holding the other boy’s head in place, and his weight and his strength are keeping Theo pressed into the seat below him, and it feels _good,_ this power, this _strength._

 

It feels _intoxicating._

 

“I never said you couldn’t smell pheromones,” Stiles growls, rolling his body again and biting down hard enough on the skin beneath his teeth that it would leave a bruise on anyone without trumped-up healing abilities.

 

Of course, that’s when Theo tires of being the one being pushed around.

 

He gasps in a hitching breath when Stiles bites down on his collarbone and presses their bodies together a second time, and the breath comes back out as a growl as he surges forward and up until he’s balanced half-standing and half-sitting on the edge of the passenger seat, forcing Stiles backwards into the dash, one hand sliding further up underneath Stiles’ shirt to drag roughly at the pale skin there while his other hand slips out, reaches up to tangle in Stiles’ hair so he can pull the human’s head up and away from his collarbone to bring their lips together in a bruising, demanding kiss.

 

Stiles gives as good as he gets, fingers of one hand yanking and twisting at Theo’s hair so hard that the werewolf snarls into Stiles’ mouth, and the nails of Stiles’ other hand are scoring down the skin of Theo’s hip so violently that – not that either of them notice this, otherwise distracted as they are – he leaves a set of red lines behind that last a second before the supernatural healing kicks in to make them fade away into nothingness again.

 

And it’s – they’re not in the greatest position right now; Stiles is a tad uncomfortable, half-sitting-half-standing like this, and Theo agrees, apparently, because he makes a noise of frustration in his throat, and Stiles doesn’t protest when Theo pushes him up and back into the dash, because it _is_ a bit less uncomfortable up here, sitting perched on the edge of the dashboard, but it’s still not _great,_ and they’re not – they’re not _close enough,_ still, because their chests are pressed together, but the angle of the inside of the car and the limited space they have available to them in this position means that it’s _only_ their chests that are flush, and it’s not _enough –_ and then Theo growls a frustrated noise into Stiles’ mouth and manoeuvres until he can get his ankle, then calf, then thigh, between Stiles’ legs, and he slides the hand that’s still at Stiles’ back down until it’s at the human’s hip, and then he yanks Stiles forward in a smooth, powerful movement so that they’re both back in the carseat.

 

Stiles’ breath leaves him in a gust when he lands, knees either side of Theo’s hips, the rest of him very firmly in the werewolf’s lap, and both of them are already straining painfully in their jeans and the sudden increased pressure where their dicks are pressed together through layers of fabric doesn’t help, and Stiles can’t help the way he arches into Theo’s body at the contact. Theo growls into Stiles’ mouth, blunt nails raking across the human’s hip, and he rolls his body in a fluid, graceful move that makes Stiles’ breath seize in his chest and makes his own body roll in response, and they’re both moving, both grinding and rolling and arching in tandem, mouths still moving roughly against each other, teeth nipping and pulling and tongues mapping the contours of the others’ mouth and they’re – _fuck_ , they’re – – – their breath is coming in shorter and shorter gasps, now, and Stiles doesn’t think he’s been this _close_ while still fully clothed since – ever, actually – and Theo’s hair is slightly sticky with hair gel where it’s tangled in Stiles’ fingers and Stiles’ hips are going to have bruises from Theo’s hands and, and their rhythm starts to falter, now, until it’s less of a rhythm and more just disjointed, jerking movements, and then – and then Theo uses his hands on Stiles’ hips to push him down at the same time that he grinds up, and the pressure of their dicks pressing against each other through their jeans is enough that Stiles jerks so sharply that his teeth bite clean through Theo’s bottom lip, and Theo makes an aborted sound as blood from his bitten lip floods into both their mouths and he jerks hard in the same instant, a breathy gasp escaping him as he comes, and that’s enough, that’s, fuck, there’s blood on Stiles’ lips and on his tongue and down his throat and Theo’s eyes are rolling back in his head beneath him as the werewolf’s hips buck and roll and his breath catches in his throat, and that’s enough to – that’s ----

 

Stiles fades slowly back in, a little while later – resurfaces from under the haze of pleasure that had fogged his brain over – and his forehead is resting on Theo’s shoulder as he breathes heavily into the sweat-dampened fabric of Theo’s hoodie, and they’re both still kinda heaving, chests brushing together with every inhale, and Stiles feels hazy and a little delirious and like he could sleep for a _week._

 

“If this is what not talking gets us,” Theo says, voice heavy and a little slurred, “then we should not talk all the time.”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles says into Theo’s shirt, only it’s more a gust of words on an exhale, because Stiles is still trying to marshal the energy to get up – to get _off Theo –_ and he can’t be fucked putting any more effort into speech than that right now.

 

Theo chuckles, and then his hand is in Stiles hair and pulling up and back until he can look into Stiles’ face, and then he --- he darts in to lick the side of Stiles’ mouth.

 

“The _fuck, dude – ”_ Stiles says, squirming away.

 

“Red’s a good look on you,” Theo says, grinning, and Stiles is confused for half a second, and then his tongue darts out – by _itself,_ Stiles very much did _not_ instruct it to do this, but he’s still floating a little bit in a post-orgasmic haze and his body is apparently functioning on auto-pilot right now – and it swipes through the blood – _Theo’s blood_ – that’s smeared on the side of his mouth.

 

Stiles’ whole body twitches in disgust, and he nearly clips Theo in the face in his haste to get a hand up to swipe urgently at his lips until the blood is gone.

 

“You’re sick,” he says, scowling at a chuckling Theo, finally rallying the necessary amount of energy required to clamber gracelessly off the werewolf, over the centre console and back into his own seat. Ugh, he’s already starting to feel sticky and disgusting, _gross._ He can’t believe he just creamed his pants like some kind of thirteen year old, jeez. The happy haze of fog is starting to recede, now, and with the departure of the post-orgasmic bliss comes the return of reality, and reality is, wow – Stiles _so_ does not want to deal with reality right now, because, shit, he just – reality is that Stiles just _creamed his pants_ in his _jeep_ with _Theo fucking Raeken,_ what the fuck.

 

Theo chuckles again (and his lip is already healed – had probably finished healing before Stiles even came, _ugh,_ werewolf healing).

 

“You’re the one who bit hard enough to break skin,” the asshole says, and ok yeah, that’s true, but it’s not like it was _intentional,_ it was a knee-jerk reaction, it was an _accident,_ if Theo hadn’t done that _thing_ with his _hips –_ and Stiles is opening his mouth to point all this out when, of fucking course, their body-thief – who is a _man on fire, what the actual fuck –_ appears out of nowhere to punch Theo in the face and flip Stiles’ jeep over.

 

……………

 

Stiles is pretty sure he’s never been so uncomfortable in his _life._

 

He has cold jizz all over the inside of his pants (which, put that _down in history_ as one of the least pleasant things in the _world_ , wow), he feels like he’s breathed in half-a pack’s-worth of cigarettes in a single hit (because there was a _man on fire_ who tried to _set Stiles’ jeep alight,_ what a fucking _douchebag_ ), he has _blood all over him_ (for the third time tonight, if we count the body and the split lip incident, both of which Stiles _does_ count _,_ thank you very much), and his brain feels like it was used as a bouncy-ball against the inside of his skull.

 

(And _yes,_ all those italics are _very necessary,_ because Stiles has had a _very shit evening_ and emphasis on the level of _utter shittiness_ is absolutely required _.)_

 

Theo drives Stiles home, because apparently Stiles has a concussion, which, great. Fabulous. Just what Stiles’ day needed, awesome.

 

And then Theo follows Stiles inside, which, why.

 

“You have a concussion,” Theo says, when Stiles asks what he’s doing, like he thinks Stiles needs reminding of the fact that someone played a brutal ping pong tournament inside his head and used his brain as the ball. “I told Scott I’d take care of you.”

 

And, when exactly did a conversation to Scott take place? Because Stiles does not remember that.

 

 _Ugh,_ whatever. Stiles is way too – too _everything;_ too uncomfortable, too sore, too tired, too _emotionally wrung out –_ to deal with this shit right now. And maybe his lassitude is coming from the concussion, a little bit? But what the fuck ever, Stiles is tired, he’s sore, he just survived being attacked by, like, a wrathful Fawkes or some shit, and he is _covered in blood and jizz._ He is officially not dealing with any more shit right now.

 

“If you think you’re getting the first shower, you’re wrong,” Stiles says, and goes upstairs, leaving Theo alone in the downstairs hallway.

 

The shower that follows is possibly the greatest shower Stiles has ever had in his life.

 

It’s hot and warm and – just – it’s fantastic. Stiles braces his hands against the wall for a while and just lets the water roll over him, through his hair and down his back and running steadily in a mini-waterfall off his nose. It's several long minutes before Stiles manages to rally the energy required to actually wash, but he does eventually, and when he finally steps out of the shower he feels like a real human being again.

 

But he still has a concussion, apparently, which is the excuse Stiles is going to go with for _clean forgetting about Theo._ Because, yeah, if he’d remembered about Theo? He probably would have, you know, _not_ walked from the bathroom to his bedroom with just his towel looped low and loose around his hips. He’d’ve done… something. Like, tied the towel tighter, at the very least. And higher. Or, checked to see if his dad’s bathrobe was hanging on the back of the door and borrowed that. Something.

 

But he doesn’t do any of that, because he’s forgotten about Theo entirely, right up til the moment he walks – clad in literally nothing but an indecently low-slung towel and water droplets, because he didn’t even fucking dry off properly, and he’s damp all over and with thin rivulets of water running from his wet hair down behind his ears to run down over his chest an down his back – through his bedroom door and finds the guy standing in the middle of his room.

 

Theo catches sight of Stiles as soon as he steps into the room, and the werewolf’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as his eyes widen and his jaw drops slightly open. The shocked look lasts about two seconds before it shifts into something else – something intent and frank and appraising and _hungry_.

 

Stiles is staring too, frozen just inside the doorway – because when walking practically nude into a room with the guy who made out with him not all that long ago after killing a boy on a hospital rooftop, apparently Stiles goes for option number three on the fight, flight, or freeze reaction spectrum.

 

“Um,” he says after a moment, because he’s not one to be silent for long, even when surprised and concussed and mortally embarrassed. “I kind of. Forgot you were here.”

 

Theo’s eyes rove down Stiles’ body and then up, lingering on the loose knot that’s all that’s keeping the towel in place, and Stiles kind of really wants to cross his arms over his chest, but something keeps him still instead.

 

“I don’t mind,” Theo says, voice a little deeper than it usually is and eyes still on the twist in the towel that is all that’s between Stiles and total nakedness, and the werewolf’s tongue flickers out to run once over his bottom lip.

 

He takes two slow, purposeful steps forward, towards Stiles; Stiles swallows and takes half a step back, and hits the doorjamb.

 

“Um,” Stiles says, and swallows again. “There are towels in the bedroom. I mean – bathroom. There are towels in the bathroom. Um. Cupboard on the left, middle shelf. You can, use one of those. If you want. A shower.”

 

Theo steps forward again, one final step that takes him within Stiles’ bubble of personal space. There’s maybe ten inches between them now, and Stiles’ breath is short in his chest as his heart pounds against the inside of his ribs, and this is so different to the roof, so different to the car. On the roof he was running on adrenaline and in the car he was running on anger and irritation, and on both occasions he was _fully clothed,_ which is absolutely more than can be said for right now.

 

He’d been lethargic and tired before he went into the shower, and when he’d come out he’d been relaxed and sleepy and ready to curl up with his pillow and spend some quality time sleeping for like a month, but now suddenly Theo’s here and in his space and Stiles is wet and kinda chilled and _wearing nothing but a towel_ , and he feels… exceedingly vulnerable right now.

 

Stiles fucking _hates_ feeling vulnerable.

 

Theo shifts and closes the small space between them, leaning in close and bracketing Stiles against the doorjamb with nothing but his body, and Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat as Theo’s lips brush the shell of his ear and the werewolf’s nose sifts gently through his wet hair.

 

“In the cupboard in the bathroom?” Theo asks quietly, breath ghosting over Stiles’ ear and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Stiles’ stomach muscles spasm suddenly and his breath seizes as Theo brushes a fingertip over the loose knot of the towel, skimming over his hipbone and trailing over the skin until it brushes through the trail of hair that starts at Stiles’ bellybutton and leads down, down.

 

Stiles’ mouth is dry, and he swallows roughly.

 

“Thanks,” Theo murmurs in Stiles’ ear, and Stiles swallows reflexively – – – and then Theo’s gone, and the room in front of Stiles is empty and the bathroom door is making a quiet _snick_ as it closes behind the fast-moving werewolf.

 

Stiles swallows again and thunks his head back into the wall, taking a moment to try to steady his breathing.

 

The water in the bathroom turns on, and then there’s the tell-tale creak of someone stepping into the shower, and Stiles – Stiles can’t ignore the throbbing between his legs anymore.

 

He’s as hard as a fucking steel rod, and he glances down to see the towel draped loosely over him as though someone hung it over the end of a baseball bat.

 

There’s no fucking way Theo missed that.

 

Stiles swallows, warring with himself for a moment, and his hand drifts to the lip of the towel practically by itself as he glances down the hallway to confirm that, yeah, the bathroom door is still shut, shower still running.

 

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t. He doesn’t like Theo. He actively _hates_ Theo, in fact, and the fact that he’s already made out twice and come once with Theo doesn’t change the fact that he hates Theo and really shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t have done any of it, but should at the very least stop it all now – cut whatever this is off before it goes any further, and then he can write the whole thing off as a weird reaction to a near-death-experience and leave it at that.

 

The shower is still running.

 

Stiles’ head throbs painfully, and his dick throbs demandingly.

 

Stiles never has been good at ignoring his dick’s demands, and that’s when his head _isn’t_ feeling like someone took to it with a Piñata bat.

 

The knot in the towel comes undone with a single tug and the whole thing pools to the ground in a vague semi-circle around Stiles’ ankles, and now that he’s allowed himself to commit to this, something in Stiles’ belly shudders with combined excitement and disappointment as he thinks about how easy it would have been for Theo to have been the one doing the tugging.

 

His hand creeps in and down, and he takes a hold of himself and his breath hitches as he starts to move.

 

It doesn’t take much to picture Theo – Theo, taking the towel and drawing it away and Theo, one hand on Stiles’ hip and the other with long fingers wrapped firmly around Stiles’ dick as he pulls and squeezes and _twists_ just the way Stiles likes it.

 

Stiles doesn’t last very long.

 

And he possibly, he realises, coming back to himself, didn’t think this through entirely. Because he was clean like, ten whole minutes ago, and now he’s got jizz all over himself again. Fuck’s sake.

 

Stiles reaches for the towel and cleans himself up as best he can. The towel was a fresh one before he got in the shower, but it goes straight into the hamper once he’s done.

 

From the bathroom, the sound of running water shuts off abruptly, followed immediately by the creak of someone stepping out of the shower.

 

Stiles remembers the power of werewolf hearing just in time to stop himself from swearing. He lurches over to his bed as quickly as he can, grabs up the sweats he left there this morning and pulls them on over his still damp legs – and he’s only just gotten them up and over his hips when he hears a noise behind him.

 

He turns, and his mouth goes dry.

 

Because what, what is this, payback?

 

Because Theo’s standing in the doorway to Stiles room, dripping wet still and with his borrowed towel slung low and loose around his hips, head cocked to the side as he watches Stiles’ reaction.

 

Stiles is staring – he knows he’s staring, how could anyone _not_ stare at that – and he distantly wonders if maybe he shouldn’t be, but then he decides that no, he’s damn well allowed to stare, firstly because _Theo_ stared, earlier, when their positions were reversed (oh, wow, fuck, don’t think about reversing positions), and secondly, when _Stiles_ did this, it had been an _accident_. Maybe it was the concussion or maybe it was tiredness or maybe it was a combination of the two, but he’d genuinely forgotten all about Theo’s presence – but Theo doesn’t have the excuse of forgetting that Stiles was here, because this is _Stiles’ house,_ where else is Stiles likely to be other than here, so therefore, if Theo’s standing dripping wet and next-to-naked in Stiles’ doorway, then it’s because he wants to be, so therefore Stiles can stare.

 

Which is a good thing, because Stiles probably wouldn’t be able to look away if he wanted to.

 

Theo (who is leaning on Stiles’ doorframe like some kind of cocky Greek statue as he drips water onto Stiles’ carpet) sniffs delicately – pointedly.

 

“Were you having fun without me?” he asks, a smirk in his eyes.

 

_Fucking werewolf senses._

In hindsight, Stiles absolutely did not think the whole “Yeah, sure, jerk off to thoughts of Theo while he uses your shower” thing through at _all._

 

Stiles tilts his chin into the air, jolted out of his staring and trying to cover his embarrassment at being caught practically red handed by choosing to be pissed off instead.

 

“I have a lot of fun without you, often,” he says, and what he _means_ is _My life without you in it is a happy one, and of course I have fun without you,_ but what he belatedly realises his words _sound_ like is – well, different.

 

Theo thinks so too, if the way his eyes darken and his lips flicker in a smirk say anything.

 

“But why have fun without me when you could have fun _with_ me?” he asks, strolling casually into the room, like he’s not clad in nothing but a fucking towel.

 

“Because I don’t need you to have fun,” Stiles says, holding his ground as Theo gets closer, because this is _his bedroom,_ damn it, and he’s not going to back up, he’s not going to yield. “ _And,_ I don’t _want_ to have fun with you.” And yeah, wow, they are absolutely not talking about regular g-rated fun anymore, if they ever were.

 

But yeah, no, this – this isn’t a thing that’s allowed to happen. Whatever this thing is, it’s clearly gone too far already if it’s taken them here – here, with Theo thinking he has any right to swan through Stiles’ bedroom all freshly clean and practically naked and dripping water all over the fucking place. This isn’t allowed to happen. Stiles doesn’t like Theo, and he doesn’t trust him. And they’ve done some shit already that they absolutely shouldn’t have, but that’s as far as it’s going to go. It’s decided. Stiles has decided. This – whatever it is, is not going any further.

 

“You _know_ I can hear when you’re lying,” Theo says, and he’s all up in Stiles’ space again and leaning in and Stiles has a hand on the werewolf’s chest to stop him before he even registers that his hand is moving, and it’s just like in the jeep again only this time neither of them are wearing shirts.

 

And, wow, Theo is very wet, still. Very wet, and also very hot – and Stiles actually does mean that in a temperature sense, the guy is actually physically hot, the skin under Stiles’ splayed fingers and flat palm is several degrees warmer than Stiles’ hand.

 

“I’m not lying,” Stiles says, willing his voice to come out steady and firm.

 

Theo smirks.

 

“Liar,” he says and sways in closer, and Stiles’ fingers spasm against Theo’s skin even as his chin tilts up in an action that’s meant to be defiant, but that actually just serves to give Theo easier access to Stiles’ neck – which, of course, the guy takes immediate advantage of, and Stiles struggles to recall what he’s being accused of lying about as Theo’s breath ghosts over Stiles’ Adams apple.

 

“Why are you so against this, anyway?” Theo asks, a murmur against Stiles’ throat, and Stiles’ other hand has apparently taken it upon itself to join it’s twin in pressing against Theo’s stupidly smooth skin, and Stiles isn’t quite sure when that happened.

 

But why is Stiles so against this? _That,_ he knows the answer to.

 

“Because you’re _you_ ,” he answers, and his voice is more breathy and less stern than he’d like it to be.

 

Theo’s tongue flickers out to run over the ridge of Stiles’ collarbone, and Stiles fights to keep his breath steady.

 

“Yeah, that doesn’t clear anything up,” Theo says, and grazes Stiles’ collarbone with his teeth. Stiles gasps a little and arches slightly, hands sliding from the muscled expanse of Theo’s stomach and chest to curl and grip around the sides of Theo’s waist instead. In an effort to anchor himself. Obviously. He’s just trying to keep his balance here. His pinkie fingers are grazing the edge of Theo’s low-slung borrowed towel. Stiles tries not to notice that.

 

“Because I h- _hate_ you,” he forces out, even as his breath catches and he arches again in response to another brush of teeth.

 

“You know, I still have no idea why you do,” Theo murmurs against Stiles’ skin, and his tongue flickers out again to run in a straight line up Stiles’ throat before he mouths his way across to the hollow beneath Stiles’ ear.

 

Stiles’ breath is uneven, and he can’t seem to get it under control. His knees are feeling kind of shaky, and he grips harder at Theo’s hips and struggles to wrangle his breathing and his knees back into order.

 

“I don’t w-want to want this,” Stiles says, still trying to explain – trying to answer Theo’s earlier question, even as he stumbles over the words and Theo mouths at the skin at the corner of Stiles’ jaw.

 

“You think _I_ want to want this?” Theo demands, growling a little and grazing the hollow beneath Stiles’ ear with his teeth. “I’m meant to be convincing Scott that I’m trustworthy, not getting into his best friend’s pants.”

 

“You’re not,” Stiles says, and then has to take a breath as Theo’s teeth graze his skin again. “You’re not in my pants,” he manages to finish – which, of course, is when Theo runs a finger along the lip of Stiles’ sweats.

 

“No, but I _want to be_ ,” Theo says, and his words are a growl that go straight through Stiles’ chest.

 

Stiles’ breath gusts out of him in a whoosh, and he’s going to blame the concussion for the way his head tips heavily forward until his forehead is resting against Theo’s shoulder. He’s still sore – his head is aching and throbbing and his thoughts are sluggish and scattered, and it’s _hard,_ holding the weight of his own head up, so he’s not going to apologise for resting it on a nearby surface, not when it relieves so much of the pressure building behind his eyes.

 

Theo responds to the change of angle like a pro, lips and teeth and tongue migrating from the curve of Stiles’ jaw back to the curve of his neck and the dip of his shoulder instead, and Stiles huffs a breath against Theo’s skin.

 

“Why?” he asks, once he’s relatively sure his voice will come out steadily.

 

“Why what?” Theo asks, mouthing his way along Stiles’ collarbone and threatening to scatter Stiles’ thoughts again.

 

“Why –” Stiles’ fingers spasm around Theo’s hips again as Theo latches on properly and starts to suck at Stiles’ skin, and the rest of his question comes out somewhat breathy. “Why do you want to get in my pants?”

 

“What?” Theo asks, huffing a little in – surprise? Amusement?

 

“Why do you want to get in my pants?” Stiles asks into Theo’s shoulder, because he’s not going to let this go – not even when Theo’s doing a damn good job of distracting him so thoroughly with his lips and his teeth and his _tongue_ – because it doesn’t make _sense._ It doesn’t make any sense unless there’s an ulterior motive, because if history tells anyone anything it’s that people are not interested in getting into Stiles’ pants, and it’s a sad state of affairs, but it’s the truth.

 

“People don’t want to do that, not with me,” Stiles goes on, muttering into Theo’s skin now, part-talking to himself and part-informing Theo as to why he’s not buying this. “So are you – is this, what, some kind of – do you have a _plan_ here, is that what this is, some _scheme,_ or – ”

 

Theo detaches himself abruptly from Stiles’ collarbone and pulls back, one hand coming up from the lip of Stiles’ sweats to take a hold of Stiles’ chin instead so he can guide the human’s head up until they’re looking at each other – and Stiles is glaring in irritation (at so many things – the man-handling, his still-sore head, the fact that Theo’s not sucking on his collarbone anymore, the fact that he’s _annoyed_ that Theo’s not sucking on his collarbone anymore) until he registers that Theo is staring at him incredulously, and then Stiles’ expression fades into one of vague confusion.

 

“Stiles,” Theo says, and he says Stiles’ name like Stiles is missing something blatantly obvious. “Stiles, I’ve _always_ wanted you.”

 

Stiles’ eyebrow furrows in bafflement at that, because _what_ , but Theo goes on before Stiles can say anything, his voice equal parts awed and frustrated and earnest.

 

“Since we were _kids_ , since – and you were such a – and since I came back, do you have any idea how – I mean, _god.”_

Theo seems to be having issues stringing his thoughts into cohesive sentences, and it’s – weird. Stiles has never seen him like this before – the guy is usually the epitome of control and smooth delivery. It’s one of the things that pisses Stiles off the most about him. But right now – right now, it’s like Theo’s got too many things he wants to say all at the same time, and he’s struggling to let them out in an order that makes sense, and Stiles stares at him, lips parted in surprised confusion as Theo continues.

 

“And – and you have no idea, do you?” he asks, dawning comprehension in his voice, and Stiles has exactly no idea what he’s talking about. “You – ha – you have _no fucking clue,_ do you? I mean – I’m meant to be getting Scott to _trust_ me, for fucks sake, meant to be proving to him that I’d be a worthy addition to his pack, but then you’re in the room and I can’t, I can’t fucking _focus_ , and – and I _do_ have a plan, but I can’t fucking _remember_ my plan whenever you’re nearby because you’re so fucking distracting, and it’s not even any better when you’re _not_ in the room, because if you’re _anywhere_ nearby I can _smell_ you, and you smell fucking _amazing, all the time,_ and I just – and I’ve been wondering for fucking _ages_ if you’ve got moles all over, you know? And, and it turns out that you _do_ and – _fuck,_ Stiles, I wanna see if I suck them hard enough whether or not they’ll come _off_ – ”

 

Stiles makes a choked sound of surprise at that – partly surprised by the words themselves but also surprised by the twitch of interest he feels at the concept, because, what? – but Theo’s not done.

 

“And – you’re putting shit in your mouth _all the fucking time,_ do you realise that? _All the fucking time,_ Stiles – I – do you have any fucking clue how fucking hard it is not to stare at you even when you’re _not_ doing obscene shit with your lips to highlighters? Do you?”

 

“Um, no?” Stiles says, once it becomes obvious that Theo’s waiting for a response.

 

“Really fucking hard!” Theo says, almost yelling. “And then when you’re _talking, fuck –_ you, you’re like, I don’t even know what you’re like but you’re all movement and energy and I can never decide whether I want to watch your hands or your lips or your eyes, and – and now you’re standing here with your fucking moles and you’re asking – and you’re – I mean – _fuck,_ Stiles, you – ”

 

Theo stops and closes his eyes for a moment while Stiles stares, wide-eyed, and the werewolf takes a sharp breath in an attempt to get his brain and mouth in alignment.

 

“I wasn’t lying, you know,” he says, opening his eyes again and staring at Stiles, more composed now, all intent and earnest and calm. “In the woods? I came back for you. For Scott, too, sure, but – Stiles. ”

 

Theo’s hand is warm and gentle on Stiles’ neck, his thumb resting along Stiles’ jawline, his gaze fixed  on Stiles.

 

“I do have a plan,” he says. “I want a pack – I _need_ a pack – and yeah, I planned how I’d achieve that. But this – ” he gestures between them, in the too-small space between their bare chests – “I didn’t plan this. Hoped for it, for later, sure. But for now? Not part of the plan.”

 

Theo laughs then, a slightly bitter edge to it.

 

“In fact, this will probably _fuck up_ my plan,” he says, but his gaze is still locked on Stiles’ and he doesn’t draw away and his eyes are dark with want and his hand is warm on Stiles’ jaw. “The most important part of my plan is that Scott trust me – he’s got to trust me, or he won’t let me in his pack, and I _need a pack –_ but I have a feeling that me getting down and dirty with you is gonna do the _opposite_ of endearing me to him. So this – I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

 

Theo’s thumb brushes along Stiles’ jawline, and the fingers tangled in Stiles’ hair flex slightly, scraping gently against Stiles’ scalp, and it feels kind of amazing.

 

“And yet here I am,” Theo murmurs, practically to himself, and Stiles shouldn’t – he _really_ shouldn’t – but he can’t help himself.

 

It’s – he’s pretty sure that whole thing is the most flattering thing anyone’s ever said to him. The whole damn speech – with the stumbling words and the half-formed sentences and the frustration and everything – and the reluctance with which it was all said kind of, it kind of sweetens the deal a little, because it gives it all a truthful edge; if Theo had said all that without struggling, Stiles wouldn’t have believed it, because people don’t _say_ that kind of thing about him, they don’t _think_ about him like that. People see his moles and think they’re _ugly_ , they don’t want to _lick_ them. People see him talking and want to shut him up, not _watch_. People think he’s a distraction all the time, sure, but not for any _good_ reason – people think he’s a distraction because he’s all noise and clumsy limbs and sarcasm, not because, not because he _smells_ good, or is chewing on highlighters, or everything else Theo just said.

 

People don’t _want_ Stiles.

 

But apparently Theo does.

 

So Stiles shouldn’t, and he _knows_ he shouldn’t, but he’s sore and he’s tired and no one’s ever said anything half so flattering as all that – and it’s kind of comforting, too, to know that Theo wasn’t planning on this just as much as Stiles wasn’t, doesn’t want to want this just as much as Stiles doesn’t want to want this – so he throws his common sense onto a shelf high up in a dark corner of his brain, and shoves the little voice that’s shrieking _bad idea, bad idea_ into a box and chucks it up out of reach next to his common sense, and he pitches forward and kisses Theo.

 

Theo meets him halfway, the hand that had been on Stiles’ jaw sliding further back to tangle properly in Stiles’ hair, and the kiss still isn’t gentle – isn’t birds-singing, flowers-sprouting bullshit – but it’s less rough than it had been in the jeep, or on the roof. It’s slower, for starters, as they both explore in more detail than they had earlier –frenzied meeting of lips and tongues and bodies that those encounters were – but it’s still got a fierceness about it; a refusal to yield, on both sides – a show of strength and dominance as they both press into one another and try to gain the upper hand.

 

It’s Theo who makes the first boundary-pushing move, as the hand not in Stiles’ hair slides down to Stiles’ hip, around to the small of his back, and then slips under the waistband of his sweats and down to cup around Stiles’ ass.

 

Stiles hisses in a sharp breath through his nose at the feel of Theo’s almost-too-hot hand on his ass cheek, and his hips roll instinctively as Theo flexes his hands, fingers alternating between squeezing and kneading the skin and muscle there.

 

Stiles is hardly going to let him keep the upper hand, though, and his fingers are moving mostly by themselves as they slip from Theo’s hips to the edge of the towel where they fumble blindly until they find the loose knot that’s all that’s holding it up, and he only has to pluck at it once before the knot comes undone, and then the towel is slipping away and down and Theo is letting loose a strangled noise as Stiles’ hands follow the towel’s path down to cup around Theo’s ass, uses the leverage to pull Theo closer, and Theo’s dick is a hot, hard stripe against Stiles’ thigh through the fabric of his sweatpants and the werewolf groans into Stiles’ mouth at the pressure of it.

 

Theo’s not one to be distracted for long, though, and it’s only a few moments before he evens the playing field again, twisting his hands out and away from Stiles’ ass long enough to get a fistful of his sweats instead, which he yanks down enough that they’re bunched around Stiles’ thighs and then all of a sudden their dicks are pressed together, and if both of them make a keening, groaning sound straight into the mouth of the other, well, there’s no one around but them to hear it, so.

 

They’re both still damp – Stiles never did finish drying off properly, and Theo never bothered at all – and their skin slips and slides and glides easily together as they move against one another, all exploring hands and wandering lips and bruising fingers and nipping teeth.

 

Theo’s ass is as smooth as his chest, and Stiles’ hands roam freely for a few moments until he can’t ignore the annoying restriction of his half-on-sweats anymore. He growls in annoyance and sacrifices one hand to reach and shove them further down, down enough that he can kick them the rest of the way off and away, and then they’re both naked and damp and pressed all up against each other, and this is, wow, not at _all_ the way Stiles saw his day going when he woke up this morning.

 

They stumble and stagger and migrate eventually towards the bed, hands and mouths and teeth and tongues roaming roughly, unceasingly, and when they get there Stiles blindly manages to hook his foot around Theo’s ankle and pitches them both backwards to land with a flump on the blankets, and oh, ouch, yup brain, you’re still in there, I see – and still, yup, still feeling really fucking tender, ok then.

 

“You ok?” Theo asks, stilling when Stiles pulls away in order to groan unhappily into the werewolf’s collarbone at the feeling of his bruised brain bouncing angrily off the inside of his skull.

 

And also – no, nope, they might be lying in a tangled, naked mess right now, but that right there? That, what is that, _concern?_ Yeah, nope, not doing that. The hands on his shoulder and waist are gentle, all of a sudden, which, no. That bullshit can fuck right off.

 

“Peachy,” Stiles grumbles, gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes closed, waiting for the wave of pain to pass.

 

“You’re concussed,” Theo says, because fucking _now_ he’s the king of chivalry. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

 

Stiles doesn’t know if Theo means _because you might wind up even more hurt_ or if he means _because you can’t really consent to this if your brain is currently on medical leave,_ or if he just means _I’m an asshole and I’m trying to use reverse psychology or some shit by telling you we’ll stop so that you beg me to keep going or what the fuck ever,_ but he knows that if Theo stops, Stiles will stab him through the eye with a holly-wrapped branch of mountain ash.

 

“If you stop, I will stab you through the eye with a holly-wrapped branch of mountain ash,” he says, because that deserves to be said aloud.

 

Theo barks a breathy laugh.

 

“Ok, then,” he chuckles, and stretches his neck forward so that he can wrap his teeth around the tip of Stiles’ ear.

 

“So if I did… this,” he goes on, teeth dragging at the curve of cartilage as he talks. “You and your concussion would be happy with that?”

 

Stiles doesn’t answer verbally (which is probably a first for him) but by tilting his own jaw down so he can wrap his teeth around Theo’s collarbone and _tug_.

 

Theo growls around Stiles’ ear, and then – in a surge of movement that leaves Stiles blinking in disoriented surprise for a moment – wraps one hand around Stiles’ ribs and rolls them both until he’s the one being pressed down into the blankets with Theo hovering over the top of him.

 

Stiles gasps and his fingers clench against Theo’s skin hard enough that it would bruise a regular human as Theo’s teeth find his nipple and close around it in a bite _just_ this side of painful, and as if that isn’t enough, then the werewolf’s hand drifts down between them until he’s got both their dicks in his grip, and _oh_. Oh, yes, good, keep doing that, yep, yes.

 

(It’s entirely possible that Stiles says that last bit out loud, but he’s otherwise distracted and can’t be certain.)

 

Theo’s got a hand wrapped around both their dicks, and he’s moving at a firm, steady pace, and both of them are gasping messy, heavy breaths into each other’s mouths as he moves, and it’s not a competition any more – it’s not a battle or a fight anymore – it’s a straight line from here to the finish line now; it’s the last leg, the final sprint towards the goal, and they’re both focussed only on making it there now, and Theo’s got one hand working them both and the other forearm braced against the mattress by Stiles’ head to hold himself up, and Stiles’ hands are still roaming freely but one keeps returning to Theo’s hair (no longer sticky, now that he’s washed the gel and the blood out of it) and the other keeps going back to Theo’s ass, and Theo’s hand – Theo’s _hand_ – Theo’s hand drives and drives and _drives_ them both all the way too – and then, with an angled _twist_ and a blunt set of nails raking down Stiles’ spine _,_ over – the edge.

 

It’s his third peak in a single evening, and when it hits Stiles sees _stars._

 

For the second time in a single night, Stiles comes back to himself breathing hard into the werewolf’s skin.

 

“You fucking rhino,” Stiles mumbles into the sweat-dampened skin, because Theo is _lying on top of him_. “Get off.”

 

He flaps a hand vaguely against Theo’s shoulder until the werewolf rolls sideways and off with a groan, and Stiles refuses to acknowledge the little voice in his head that protests the loss of Theo’s weight and heat.

 

“Ok, and now, fucking, _sleep_ ,” Stiles mumbles rolling into his pillow, because after the day that he’s had (including a near death experience, a murder (self-defence killing?), a run-in with an angry flaming man, an upside down jeep, smoke inhalation, a concussion, three intense make-out sessions, and three separate orgasms), sleeping is literally all Stiles wants to do right now.

 

“You’re not supposed to sleep with a concussion,” Theo says, and he still sounds wrecked.

 

“Fuck off, I’m sleeping,” Stiles grumbles, shifting and wriggling without opening his eyes until he can get a corner of the blanket and yank it over him. He doesn’t know if any of it winds up covering Theo at all, and he doesn’t give a shit, frankly. He’s loose-limbed and still flooded with that sated, content feeling that only occurs after an orgasm (or three), and he’s had the actual day from hell and his head is _still fucking pounding, ow,_ and he’s going to sleep now, and no concussion or douchebag werewolf who’s still in his bed is going to get in the way of that.

 

And it’s probably not wise, but then, none of the things Stiles has done today have been _wise,_ so.

 

Theo sighs like he’s the most put upon guy in the world.

 

“Fine,” he says, and then the mattress is shifting as the guy gets comfortable, or something. Stiles doesn’t know, he’s got his head half under his pillow as he prepares to pass out for, like, six years or so. “But if you think I’m leaving you alone, you’re wrong.”

 

“Fine, whatever, shut the fuck up,” Stiles grumbles, not bothering to open his eyes. Then, “I still hate you,” because he feels like he needs to clarify that, on the brink of unconsciousness or not.

 

He hears Theo chuckle.

 

“I know,” the asshole says. And then, “I’ll be waking you up in an hour.”

 

“What,” Stiles whines into his pillow. “ _Why_.”

 

“Because you have a concussion, and I need to make sure you’re only sleeping, and not unconscious,” Theo says, and he sounds way too smug about the whole thing, the douchebag.

 

“Ugh, _fuck you,”_ Stiles groans, and the last thing he hears before he lets himself slip under is the sound of Theo laughing under his breath, and then Stiles is blissfully, _blissfully_ asleep.

 

…

**Author's Note:**

> I never understood the whole “I’m trash” thing. Like, what, why would you say that about yourself, that’s horribly negative and unnecessary, why are you saying such things, stop. 
> 
> … And then Steo happened, and then this fic, and then dpc, and – just – is it Wednesday? Because rubbish collection day is Wednesday and, just – just, do the world a favour and, just, put me out with the trash. 
> 
> Yeah. So. Anyway. On a slightly different note: my usual genres? Comedy and family and h/c and friendship. This fic is so very, very outside my usual realm of writing. In that, not only was it my first foray into smut (most of it being written before 'doctor patient confidentiality'), it’s also my first foray into slash. And this is SO LONG, HOLY SHIT. I did not know I had this in me. I like to jump straight into the deep end of things, apparently. I tend not to write romance fics… at all. Read them, hell yeah; but write them? Those plot bunnies just don't visit me. I’ve got over fifty stories elsewhere on this site, and I think a total of two of them are romance ---- and they were gen-rated, established-relationship fluff-fics between a het couple. Romance, smut, and slash don’t tend to be my areas at all. (And can we even call this romance? I’m not sure we can. Looks like romance still isn’t my area.) 
> 
> What I’m trying to say is that I’m new here, and I’d love some feedback. Also, I plan to continue this (i have more of the story plotted in my head, including the ending) but - honesty hour - I have a bad track record with updates. I'll try? But I can't promise.


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